1 week Ago
My husband and I recently returned from Europe. The trip was amazing ..
. and it was a miracle we actually made it to the airport. It’s not that we dawdle and barely make the gate on time — we’re usually seated at least three hours before our flight is called, because that’s how Widdle rolls.
What does us in is the packing. For many years, Widdle and I didn’t agree on packing. That’s because I preferred to travel light, meaning a weekend bag and a purse.
If I forgot something, I’d buy it when I arrived or do without it. I once unpacked in a Denver hotel and realized I’d forgotten all my makeup. My first impulse was: Where’s the nearest drugstore? My second impulse was: I’m too tired and too stingy, forget it.
I didn’t wear makeup for a week and nobody died, although my then-husband did ask, repeatedly, if I was unwell. Widdle has never packed light, and he was traveling the world before I ever got on a plane. Thus, his is the voice of experience.
Which is to say, after years of coaxing and pleading, he finally got me to check a bag. I hate checking bags. Whether it’s for two or 10 days, I prefer my old-faithful, canvas and leather weekender.
I can toss it into an overhead bin, yank it out when we land, deplane and Uber to a hotel before he spots his suitcase on the baggage carousel. But of course, that’s not how marriage works. Now, because it makes Widdle happy, I check a bag.
A great big bag, in which I pack my favorite feather pillow, plus a large, faux-crocodile train case for my cosmetics and meds. Widdle doesn’t understand any words in that last sentence. “You do know they have pillows at the hotel,” he said, the first time I tossed my pillow into my gaping, hard-shelled suitcase.
“I’m aware,” I said. “Leave that bulky train case! You can fit everything in a two-gallon bag and take up a lot less room,” he said. “I’m aware,” I said.
I start packing two days before we fly. He starts the morning of. That’s OK, different strokes for different folks.
Last week, Widdle’s eyes almost popped out when he saw me packing my train case with two flatirons, two hairbrushes, hairspray, hair bands, dry shampoo and hair clips. “How many heads of hair do you have?” Widdle sputtered. “You’re taking way too much.
” “I’m aware,” I replied. Yes-- after years of traveling light, I’m now an over-packer. Back in the day, I could wing it with spare underwear, jeans and an extra pair of shoes.
If things went sideways, I could always find a laundromat or, in a pinch, a Goodwill. Now, faced with a giant suitcase and an eight-day itinerary, I threw in a dozen pairs of socks and underwear, six bras, two sports bras, three pairs of jeans, wool leggings, spandex leggings, cotton leggings, three belts, sweaters, sweatshirts, Bermuda shorts (in case of a heat wave), a raincoat, black pants, brown pants, heeled shoes, flat shoes and two pairs of tennis shoes. Then I added five long-sleeved Nike tops, two turtlenecks, gloves, Crocs, three scarves (wool, silk and cable-knit), a book, a book light, and a gallon bag of figs, nuts, pretzels and other snacks.
I know it’s ridiculous to pack (and schlep) that much stuff around three countries. And, between you and me, on this trip I lost/left a lot of it on trains, planes and automobiles. Widdle is not (yet) aware.
Julie R. Smith , who will never be separated from her favorite feather pillow, can be reached at [email protected] .
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